


We share our mothers' health

by belantana



Category: Eastern Promises (2007), Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen, it's always the Russians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-10
Updated: 2009-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 20:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belantana/pseuds/belantana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"You know Russia is a big country, yes? Many people. Why is it someone is always asking me, do I know this Russian?" Kachimov spread his hands wide, chuckling with amusement. "Of course I do. I know every hundred fifty million of them."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	We share our mothers' health

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [@eljay](http://belantana.livejournal.com/38058.html).

"You know Russia is a big country, yes? Many people. Why is it someone is always asking me, do I know this Russian?" Kachimov spread his hands wide, chuckling with amusement. "Of course I do. I know every hundred fifty million of them."

The footpath was narrow and the street busy. Nikolai scanned the traffic, deliberately avoiding looking at the man who had fallen in step beside him.

"Who is asking?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kachimov shrug, frowning. "Some people. Unimportant people."

"But you do not know me." Nikolai pulled off his gloves to cup the cigarette to his lips.

"True. Ah, but I think you know _me_ , Kolya."

A cleaning van pulled out of a service lane in front of them. Nikolai stepped behind it and turned into the lane. Behind him he sensed the old man hesitate, then follow. He dropped the cigarette, shoved sideways and had the knife at Kachimov's throat in one smooth movement.

"I am not FSB," he hissed, "in this country."

Kachimov was breathing hard, but he attempted levity, twitching his palms out to placate. He spoke in Russian. "I wasn't aware – that FSB was something you could take off like a coat."

Once, Nikolai had trusted in the indulgence of layers. Boxes. He did away with layers the day he found himself wondering if he was a good man pretending to be bad, or a bad man pretending to be good. Where was the benefit in searching for a difference in raping a girl before or after promising her the world?

These things had a way of getting under your skin. Turning things inside out. If you let them. He threw away the box and whichever secret self was inside it, like a baby into the river. It didn't do to make such distinctions.

Nikolai twisted the blade so the edge of it caught the old man's skin. This close he really did look old. His glasses had been knocked askew and his eyes were red-rimmed, watery. Nikolai pressed closer, holding him to the wall.

"Yes," he said, "I do know who you are. I don't know what you want from me, but I am not FSB. I can't help you."

Just as suddenly he pushed back, the knife disappearing into his coat. Kachimov's hand came automatically to his neck. There was no blood.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. Nikolai reverted to accented English.

"I am just driver," he said, twisting a smile.


End file.
